


The Anniversary

by ToxicAvenger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and hurt/comfort-ish, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 08:55:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5122388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToxicAvenger/pseuds/ToxicAvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been five years since Sherlock and Jim stopped playing the game of detective and criminal, and started a life on the down low together. </p><p>Today is their anniversary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Anniversary

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he scanned the shelves in the flower shop across the street from 221B. He could not quite believe he was actually standing here again. The experience was as mortifying as the previous times, but he drew a deep breath, reminding himself why he was here. It had been five years since he and Jim had stopped playing the game of detective and criminal, and had started a life on the down low together. Today was their anniversary.

The thought calmed him, and he finally chose a slim bouquet of mixed orange lilies and roses. Sherlock’s lips twisted upwards as he recalled his bemusement at discovering that Jim not only liked lilies, they were in fact his favourites. No amount of wry teasing from Sherlock had been enough to deter him, and he was fairly certain that Jim would laugh his arse off to see him squirming uncomfortably between the shelves right now. But instead of irritating him, the thought made his smile widen fondly. Today was the only day he did not mind going the extra mile. He moved to the cash register to pay. 

“These are lovely, you have great taste in flowers! Special occasion then, is it?” the blonde girl behind the counter chirped cheerfully at him.

“Aaah… yes, yes it’s an… An anniversary of sorts…” Sherlock managed, thrown off a bit like he usually was when strangers put it about themselves to inquire about his personal life, but he stifled the instinct to tell the girl to mind her own business. He fumbled through his coat pockets and pulled out his wallet, happy to direct his attention elsewhere.

“Do you want a card with these?” the girl asked with a wave of the hand. “We have some romantic ones for special occasions over here, if you care to take a look.”

“A card? Oh, no. No, no, that won’t be necessary. Thank you,” Sherlock said as he mentally recoiled at the idea of going through the process of writing a card for Jim. To try and express his feelings, and put his jumbled thoughts down in writing on a small square of paper? No, that would certainly never do, it would be an embarrassing process, and surely with a dreadful result. The flowers would have to suffice as far as romantic gestures went. 

“Oh, okay. Well, have a nice evening then, hope your other half likes the flowers.” She smiled again and sent him on his way with a neatly wrapped bouquet.

Other half. The accuracy of the words hit Sherlock with unexpected force, and he suddenly felt slightly light-headed. What had drawn him and Jim to each other in the first place, was the fact that they saw in each other something missing of themselves, something that would complete them. They had both been searching for order in the chaos, trying to make sense of the incoherency of the world. It hadn’t taken long to realize they were inextricably linked by everything that set them apart from other people. 

For a while they enjoyed the unpredictability of the game they played. The detective pitted against the criminal mastermind spinning his criminal web. The chase, the pleasure of creating trouble for the other and constantly trying to outsmart each other. It was thrilling, and kept the boredom they had both been struggling to outrun at bay. 

In the end, they had become greedy. The game was no longer enough. They wanted more, and they had decided to take the chance on letting their relationship go one step further. None of them were able to predict whether it would work. There was the hope and allure of soothing the loneliness and apartness they both felt, but there was also the fear that acting on it might end up being boring and ordinary. They had gambled. And they had won. There were many different ways to describe their relationship, but boring was not one of them.

Lost in thought, Sherlock found himself back at 221B. He had to look through the entire flat in search of a vase, rarely used as it was. He put the flowers in water, amused by his own fumbling efforts at domesticity, shoving all thoughts of the past to the back of his mind. 

Sherlock looked around the flat, wondering what to do to occupy him until it was time to prepare for the anniversary dinner. An urge to talk to Jim came over him, and like he had done so many times before, he pulled out his phone and dialled Jim’s number, his fingers finding the familiar number combination instead of using the speed dial. He relished the expectation of hearing that silky voice in the other end.

It went to voice mail, the way it always did. He listened to the short message that he knew by heart by now. “You have reached Jim Moriarty. I am not able to answer you call at the moment. Please leave your name and number, and I will get back to you at my earliest convenience. Please be brief and take care not to go into any detail about the matter at hand. Thank you.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled at the sound of Jim’s voice. Even though the message was read in a reserved and business-like manner, the mere sound of Jim’s voice made his heart skip a beat. He had to restrain himself from dialling the number again just to hear that Irish lilt one more time. Sherlock checked himself. It would have to wait for this evening. 

\----------

To pass the time, Sherlock decided to drop by Molly at the morgue. It was too seldom that he got to see her nowadays. It had been that way since his small group of confidantes had had found out about Jim and him, and everything that had followed in its wake in the years to come. His life was different now. He hadn’t seen John for a long time, and he’d stopped taking cases as a consulting detective to the Yard, only took on a few minor freelance jobs these days. 

Molly was one of the few people that had always been there for him, through good times and bad times, and Sherlock knew he owed her a lot. He walked in on her as she was pouring over a microscope, an array of dishes and tubes next to her on the counter. Her hair was messy, her hands covered with latex gloves and on her face were a pair of protective glasses. She was startled as she turned around and saw him standing at the door. 

“Oh, Sherlock! You scared me! How lovely to see you again, how are you? It really has been too long!” she beamed at him, removing her glasses. Sherlock felt a warmth spread in his chest and wondered why it was that he couldn’t bring himself to see her more often. 

“Yes, sorry about the absence, I’ve been… Busy,” he offered half-heartedly by way of explanation. 

“Oh, yeah. Sure. I see, no, that’s… Yeah, of course,” Molly stuttered, staring at him, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. She didn’t seem convinced. “So you’ve got a new job, then? Did you finally let Mycroft set you up with something?”

“No, nothing like that. He has made several offers, but I haven’t accepted any of them. Too boring, no imminent danger of sudden death or kidnapping,” Sherlock tried, and failed to make a joke of it. 

He could see the concern in Molly’s face. Caught in her earnest gaze he remembered now that one of the reasons he didn’t see her more often was her ability to see straight through him. Ever since he had given up his job as a consulting detective, the people around had started asking questions he did not know how to answer. 

“It’s because of Jim, isn’t it?” she asked, her eyes not quite meeting his, her voice dropping a bit lower than her usual tone.

“Molly, please! The answer is the same as the last time you asked. I do as I damn well please, let's just leave it at that, right?” It came out harsher that he intended, and Molly flinched a bit, keeping her eyes lowered, and only nodded. 

Sherlock was struck by Molly’s ability to always hit the mark dead on. Jim had everything to do with it, but Sherlock was sick of the questions and the concern, and the incessant meddling in his life. John, Molly, Mycroft, even Lestrade had been all over him, until he had told them in no uncertain terms to back off. Granted, his life was different now, but it was his choice, and he resented that everyone put it upon themselves to second-guess him and presume to know what was best for him. 

“So, it’s your anniversary today, right? Any special plans?” Molly changed the subject with a smile that never reached her eyes. Sherlock was surprised that she’d remember, another sign of how much the people around him made his business their own. He knew she meant well, but still had to draw his breath a couple of times before he could muster a response. 

“No, not really. Just the usual. You know, quiet dinner in. I’ll get take away from Bamboo Box. Jim’s favourite. Cooking and me, remember…?” Sherlock voice trailed away in something meant to resemble a laugh, trying to lighten the mood. Molly only nodded in response and changed the subject, to Sherlock’s relief. 

Sherlock stayed for a cup of coffee in her office, but the tone between them was forced, the way it had been for a while now. It made him regret his decision to come here today of all days, and he made up an excuse about running late for a meeting with a potential client, and hurriedly made his way out of the building. Good intentions or not, he couldn’t stand the concern that emanated from Molly when she looked at him. 

Once outside, the all too familiar feeling of not knowing what to do to fill the hours of the day appeared. He could always just go back to Baker Street and immerse himself in one of those books that had been sitting on his coffee table for so long now, ready to be devoured. But deciding that today was not he day for it, Sherlock decided simply to take a stroll in the nice spring weather. 

His mind turned to Jim again, and the way his life had changed since they met. All the good days, and all the difficult ones. A rush of fondness came over him as his mind filled with domestic images of Jim. The most dangerous man in the country lounging on their sofa in only his underwear. Long, lazy Saturday mornings spent in bed, chilly evenings on top of a roof looking up at the amazing span of stars above them, Jim eagerly pointing out constellations and stars that had cast their light thousands and thousands of years ago. The dinners, the concerts, the quiet evening in listening to their favourite records. 

Domestic, sure, but their life had never been boring. There was too much to discover within the other, about the way their similar but in many ways diametrically contrasting minds worked. They both had their particular passions that they wanted to share with the other, unused to having anyone actually bother listening. Their opposing lines of work were also a source of unpredictability and excitement.

Inevitably, the images of difficult days intruded on Sherlock, and the sunny day suddenly grew a bit chillier. His smile faded and his forehead crinkled as he frowned. There were the times when Jim’s own mind would ambush him, stray thoughts and images from the past kicking up a whirlwind of chaos within him. Making him loose his grip on reality, resulting in manic, reckless and erratic behaviour. Shouting, arguing, breaking things. Staying away for days, coming home with marks on his skin, crumpled business cards and foreign currency in his pockets. And even worse, the times of absolute silence and withdrawal inside himself, no way for Sherlock to reach him.

Sherlock reluctantly had to admit to himself that his own behaviour was not beyond reproach. He was not accustomed to encountering displays of feeling like that, and didn’t know how to deal with it. He couldn’t always stop himself from becoming irritated and impatient with Jim’s unpredictable behaviour, when talking him out of his moods didn’t work. Against better judgement he would engage in the arguments Jim started over nonsensical, insignificant details, taking offence of comments he should have let go, even walking out and leaving Jim to his own devices when he deep down knew he should be there to support him. 

A blush crept into Sherlock’s cheeks as he considered his own childish ways in the face of Jim’s demons. He couldn’t tell if his own behaviour and presence in Jim’s life had made it better or worse. All he knew was that he had never been the good at changing; his brother had incessantly made fun of him for his set ways when growing up. Nor would he have been able to leave Jim even if that should have proved the best option. Too selfish by far, he’d been confronted with that character trait as well, and knew it was true. 

Sherlock shook his head to get his mind off this destructive path, and looked around to realize his walk had taken him further both in time and distance than intended. He turned, and hurried home to make sure he had time to make the final preparations so the anniversary dinner would be ready at the usual time.

\----------

Sherlock put the flower vase on the table, poured two glasses of wine and put the take away in the fanciest serving bowls he could find. He couldn’t remember ever getting them, they probably belonged to Mrs. Hudson.

He looked at the table, satisfied, and checked the time. 6:02. Yes, it was time. He helped himself to a serving of Chicken Satay and raised his glass to Jim’s empty place opposite him. 

“To you, Jim. Five years ago you changed my life. Two years ago you broke it beyond repair. But I don’t regret a single moment. I hope you are at peace from your demons now, wherever you are.” 

Sherlock’s voice broke at the final word. He put the glass to his lips with a shaky hand to take a small sip, finding it hard to swallow because of the lump in his throat. He never really liked this wine anyway; it was one Jim had chosen for their first anniversary. The taste of it reminded Sherlock of him, and it turned bitter in his mouth. It felt like a iron fist clenched his heart as he was struck by the simple fact that they would never share a bottle of wine again. Tears brimmed in his eyes, blurring his vision.

Sherlock closed his eyes, took a deep breath and entered the familiar surroundings of his mind palace. He walked down its halls at a leisurely pace, remembering the time he had rushed through them in panic to find Jim in his moment of deepest need. He was in need this time as well, though not physically. 

He went through several rooms before he found Jim. He was in the winter garden next of the living space that was as close to a replica of 221B as possible, with only a few minor adjustments to fit Jim’s tastes. He was sitting in a sofa just big enough for two in the fading light of the day, looking up at his beloved stars. 

Jim was impeccably dressed as always, in his favourite light grey suit. He turned as Sherlock approached, and greeted him with a smile and a warm glow in his brown eyes. The sight of the man was enough to make Sherlock feel winded all of a sudden.

“Ah, there you are, Sherlock. Started to wonder if you would make it this time around. Happy anniversary, darling,” Jim said in a tone so soft it made Sherlock’s head spin. How he had missed that sound, it just didn’t seem humanly possible. Sherlock cleared his throat to make sure his voice was steady.

“Happy anniversary, Jim,” he breathed, returning the smile and seating himself next to him on the sofa. Their arms were just barely touching.

They sat in silence for a while, just watching the stars grow brighter as night fell. He had so much he wanted to say to Jim, but now he couldn’t think of a single thing important enough to break the comfortable silence that floated between them. 

“You know, you really should read up on astronomy, Sherlock. You’ve got the book lying there on the coffee table, after all… There are so many constellations missing here. And look at Ursa Major, the one everyone knows, it’s completely jumbled!” Jim berated him with a crooked smile.

Sherlock burst out laughing. Trust Jim to know just the right thing to say to bring back the atmosphere of their time together. He still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that his brilliant mind didn’t exist in the world anymore. It made Sherlock not want to be a part of it either. He could’t see the point in living in a world without him. The world was too dull, too ordinary without him.

Another peaceful silence passed between them, as Jim sighed contently and moved so he could rest his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, weaving the fingers of their hands together. Sherlock shifted to make him more comfortable, and raised his other arm to Jim’s hair. 

“I went to see Molly today. I think she’s worried about me. It’s all your fault, you know. How could you leave me like that?” he said, repeating the words that had fallen from his lips countless times before. 

Jim only hummed against his neck. Just when Sherlock thought he wasn’t going to get a reply, he felt Jim’s lips move against his neck.

“Oh, fuck you, Sherlock. It’s always about you, isn’t it?” came his surprisingly blunt, whispered reply.

“I waited for you for all my life. The one thing that I did only for myself, and here you are, trying to make it all about you. Figures. You always were a self-absorbed arse,” he continued in a raised voice, not quite able to hide the teasing in his voice toward the end.

His words hit home, and Sherlock realized he needed to hear it. He had to accept Jim’s decision, no matter how painful. Deep down Sherlock was aware that he had wallowed in self-pity and anger for too long after Jim had made the one-sided decision to end their relationship. 

Every single detail of that day almost two years ago was etched into his mind. A normal day, spent working on a case with John and Lestrade had changed into a nightmare in a split second. Sherlock had felt guilty for not finding time to talk to Jim all day because of the case, knowing he was going through a period with increasingly black moods. Sherlock wasn’t even sure if Jim would be at the flat when he returned, and he had gone through the rooms looking for him. He checked the bedroom last of all, knowing Jim sometimes slept after meetings with his business partners that didn’t keep the same schedules as the rest of the world. 

He had known the second he saw Jim’s still form on the bed. Had known straight away that he wasn’t only sleeping, his mind processing in seconds the distinct lack of movement, of warmth, of life. It had hit him like a slap in the face. Sherlock had rushed to the bed, scanning the pill bottles on the nightstand. So many, all of them empty. He took one of Jim’s hands in his, and felt with a shudder how cold it was. He knew there was no use calling an ambulance. He was too late. 

In a state of complete disbelief and shock, he had picked up his phone and called John. No reply. He found Molly’s number. “I need your help, please…” was all he could manage before his numb fingers dropped the phone to the floor. He knew she would come, that he could count on her.

He had climbed up into the bed to lie next to Jim, pulling him close, embracing him for the last time. He didn’t shed a tear, couldn’t feel anything. His mind was reeling, refusing to let in reality, focusing on the strangest things, like the fact that the bed sheets would need to be changed, and how Molly had never been in his bedroom before. 

Sherlock had clutched Jim’s body until his knuckles went white. Molly had brought John, and it wasn’t until they all but pried his fingers loose that Sherlock could bring himself to let go. As long as they lay together on the bed, Sherlock’s face buried in Jim’s hair, he could postpone reality, could have a few more precious moments with the man who had become his entire world and his reason for existing. 

Jim hadn’t left a note. It wasn’t needed. Sherlock knew Jim’s mind almost as he knew his own. He knew why he hadn’t been able to go on, and he knew nothing he could put in a note would be able to do justice to what they had shared. Better to leave it unsaid.

In the weeks after, Sherlock had been dazed, running on autopilot. Mrs. Hudson had mothered him, John, Molly and Lestrade had taken turns on visiting him in the now eerily empty flat, and Mycroft had made an unparalleled effort to show emotion. He had never once let slip what they both knew he must be thinking, how this was the most desired outcome for so many reasons. 

At first Sherlock had tried to go on as usual, throwing himself into work more than ever, but soon found it pointless now that there were no cases engineered by the mastermind he used to share his bed and his life with. 

He never went to the grave, but instead started spending his days with Jim in his mind palace. He would spend days on end in bed or in his chair, barely moving. Faces and voices of people coming to see him were only a distant blur. He continued to pay the mobile subscription on Jim’s phone, so he could listen to his voice on the voice mail message, over and over again.

It was a destructive way to grieve. The joy of seeing Jim made it all the worse to return to the harsh reality of the empty flat. Months of just existing dragged by. He was breathing but not smelling, because everything smelled of Jim. He was eating but not tasting, because food was only a requirement to survive. His eyes were open but he didn’t see, because the rooms that used to be filled all of Jim’s latest contraptions and junk were so still and empty. He answered when his friends talked to him, but never really listened, because nothing anyone said could be of any significance. 

Finally, when Mycroft threatened to have him committed somewhere to be handled by people in white coats, he realized it couldn’t go on. He knew he had to stop the visits to his mind palace, or else he would be tempted never to leave it again. He decided he would only go there only once a year. On the day of their anniversary. 

He took on a few odd clients, and turned to nothing stronger than a bottle of whiskey to dull his senses when the hole that had been punched through his chest ached too acutely. Sherlock knew he would never be the same again, and some days he thought he hated Jim for what he had done to him. But he always came back to the thinking that the time they had together was worth it, even though his life was empty now and he muddled along without any real sense of purpose. 

“You really should start looking after yourself, you know,” Jim interrupted Sherlock’s reverie. “You look like shit,” he mumbled, his breath hot against Sherlock’s neck, making a shiver run down his back. 

“Do it for me, Sherlock. What was best for me shouldn’t hurt you. You’d better get on with making life hell for those sorry excuses for criminals out there. You’re not on the side of the angels, remember?” he finished in a forceful tone as he raised his head, locking Sherlock in an intense gaze that reminded him of their early days.

Sherlock didn’t answer immediately. He let Jim’s words sink in, feeling the importance of them. “Okay, I will. I promise,” he answered simply, as he continued stroking Jim’s hair in slow movements. He missed those small, seemingly insignificant signs of endearment. And those brown eyes, deep enough to drown in. 

They sat like that for a while longer, continuing conversations started in another lifetime. It felt like just another normal, quiet evening in their flat.

Eventually, Sherlock realized it was time to leave, before he got so comfortable that he wouldn’t be able to leave, before he got tempted to forget about reality and seek refuge inside his own mind with Jim for ever. The only thing stopping him was the realization deep down that this version of Jim could never truly satisfy him, beyond providing his shattered mind with some solace. The brilliance of the man was too great even for Sherlock’s mind palace to do justice to it.

“You’ve broken me, Jim. And still I can’t bring myself to regret it,” came Sherlock’s voice, hoarse and shaky. He turned towards the other man, the back of his hand impatiently wiping away a traitor tear making its way down his cheek. “I’ll never meet someone like you again. I never want to, either.

“I know, darling. And you won’t. You won’t. There were only ever the two of us. We were made for each other, Sherlock. It just wasn’t enough, it wasn’t meant to last longer than it did,” was Jim’s soft, but punishing reply.

His face radiated tenderness and Sherlock took it all in with an acute sense of desperation, like a lifeline to a man drowning, tracing every well-known feature of Jim’s face. 

“I guess I’ll see you next year. For the anniversary,” Sherlock said, pulling his face level with his own and allowed himself one, lingering kiss. 

His mind all but exploded from the sensation. After what seemed like both an eternity and no time at all, they broke apart, looking into each other’s eyes. It was difficult to breathe, and Sherlock couldn't make himself move. When Jim closed his eyes, Sherlock finally found the strength to get up from the sofa. 

“See you next year, Sherlock. Take care of yourself,” Jim offered by way of goodbye. It was all they needed. They both knew. Sherlock’s pain had eased a little at the sight of this peaceful version of Jim, no longer troubled by dark thoughts and moods. He was at ease now, in Sherlock’s mind.

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, and found himself sitting at the table in the flat, alone. Hours had passed, and he let out a sigh as reality mercilessly sunk in again. The food had gone cold and the flowers he had gone through a painstaking process of buying were mocking him with their bright, cheerful colour. He wasn’t the least bit hungry, so he rose and cleared the table, before getting the bottle of whiskey to pour himself a glass.

The flat was so empty now that he had it all to himself. He settled in his chair, ignoring the one next to it, which had been Jim’s. It didn’t feel like a home anymore. He still had some of Jim’s things lying around, proof that their lives had actually crossed paths. 

Jim’s favourite work on unsolved problems in astrophysics, well-used and with scribblings on almost every page, lay on the table. A painting he had insisted on getting for Sherlock’s birthday was on the wall over the sofa. In the bathroom, one of Jim's razors was still on its shelf where he had left it, and it was a comfort to see it there every morning. His collection of ridiculously expensive suits still hung neatly lined up in the closet. Occasionally, Sherlock would open the doors and run his fingers over them, smiling at the memory of Jim’s obsession with them.

His most cherished memento though, was one of Jim’s T-shirts that he had used to sleep in when he got cold. It was a soft, grey shirt, with a print on the front that read “The Killers”, one of his favourite bands. The double meaning was not lost on Sherlock, and still made him smile. It was folded and tucked under Sherlock’s pillow, on the side of the bed that he had always occupied. Knowing full well it bordered on unhealthy, he would take it out and press it to his face when the nights got to unbearable and he couldn’t sleep, running his fingers over the soft material. He realized it was an illusion, as almost two years had passed since Jim had last worn it, but he could swear he could still feel the lingering smell of his skin and his cologne even now. 

Up until now Sherlock hadn’t cared that he was unable to let go of the past. All of these things were reminders that it had been real, that it hadn’t been just in his imagination. If that meant living in the past, then so be it. It was unhealthy, but whatever would get him through the day, he would take. But Jim’s words just now, essentially his own subconscious making its way to the surface, had helped him finally start to come out of his dazed state.

Sherlock stretched in the chair, swirling the amber liquid around in his glass, and felt the heat spreading through his body. Right then and there, with Jim’s burning gaze still lingering in his mind, he made the decision. 

He was going to commit to honouring the promise he had made to get on with his life. It was a promise to Jim as much as to himself. Tomorrow he would go see Mycroft and accept one of his job offers. Or talk to Lestrade to offer his help on the cases the Yard couldn’t crack, as there would assuredly be a whole pile of them. Something resembling a laugh bubbled up in his throat, the whiskey producing its desired effect. 

Even though he wouldn’t find a challenge worthy of his attention without Jim pulling the strings, it would be an attempt to find some meaning again. He felt like he owed it to Jim, who had dedicated so much of his own life to him, and to the game that had bound them and put their lives on crossing paths. Giving up now would not only be losing the game, but forfeiting it, and that tasted too much of betrayal. 

Sherlock knew he could do it. After all, it was only a year until their next anniversary. Only 364 days to get through until he would see Jim again. For now, that was enough. He closed his eyes and let sleep sweep him away, as another anniversary without his other half came to a close.


End file.
